


Forget How to Breathe

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, PWP, Partner Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 21:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Bodie and Doyle at work, then at play.





	Forget How to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Smile](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/377544) by Bistoprofi. 



Doyle dives out of the car door before it’s all the way open, draws his gun in the air, is shooting almost before he rolls upright. Bodie darts back, past the boot, behind that brick overhang for the garage door, leans around to fire, back to protect himself. He saw Doyle without looking, because right now moving is life and death and the only thing he can pay attention to is his aim.

But he’ll remember Doyle’s power.

Bodie is chasing, leaps over a wall with one hand on the ledge, his hips and legs flying. His feet seem already running when they hit the ground, and his gun is ready, his face as implacable as a warrior angel’s. Painting, sculpture, illumination? Doyle has no thought to spare, while running as hard as he can after, for where he saw the image that he hardly recalls. Bodie dives and again for a moment his arse is upward, muscles working. Always an astonishment.

Later. Later for that.

They close for hand-to-hand, enough yobs for both of them and the backup, if they arrive before tomorrow, a punch here (Doyle’s shoulder bunching, then his fist blasting forward and his yob flying back) and a bit of stick there (Bodie’s found a good one by magic, seemingly, among the leaves, swings it back and forth with lethal grace, then over his head and around like a scythe—and it might as well be for how it cuts the opposition down), a shoulder in a solar plexus, an elbow to a chin, a well-placed kick to the last one’s gonads. Won’t get up in a hurry. Then they have a moment for eyes meeting, smiles.

But no longer than a moment, so that too goes into storage.

Still too much to do, afterward. Handing some over to local bobbies (“Plods,” Bodie mutters), putting others in the backup’s car to go back to Cowley’s tender interrogative care (“Don’t bruise them any more, sailors,” Doyle tells the B-squad team), searching the house, the out-buildings, the grounds, only catching fleeting glimpses of each other and exchanging phrases on the RTs that anyone else would think were coded (“Stalls, you think?” “Nah. Orchestra. Housekeeper?” “Not in a year, I’d say.” “Have to settle for the milkmaids, then.” “Ah!” “Gold, is it?” “Dross, old chap, but our dross.”) Collecting the evidence, stowing it in the Capri, roaring off for the sheer joy of it. Doyle’s driving now. He knows the speed traps. Bodie laughs in the passenger seat. Doyle joins in, that sound that seems to shake the car. Or maybe just Bodie.

He’ll tell Doyle when he can. Or show him, better to show him.

Back at CI5, there are the reports. For these they sit chastely separate, because otherwise, nothing will get written. Bodie and Doyle throw jokes and jabs around like confetti as the other teams come through. They’re each asked to the pub. Each says no, not tonight. They drink tea, which tastes terrible, and Bodie steals the chocolate biscuits. At least he’s not eating Swiss roll, because the way Bodie’s cheeks look, when they’re full of cylindrical cake, is just too reminiscent.

Of something Doyle cannot think about, not yet.

In Cowley’s office, Bodie takes point for the near-insubordinate jokes, while Doyle snickers behind him. By this time, it’s so late they can’t get a snort or a scold (and certainly not a whiskey) out of Cowley, who just sends them home. The elevator, where they’ve wrestled and played before, feels exposed even though no other agents or staff are in it. 

They avoid each other’s eyes now. This is the time to remember to breathe.

Bodie’s current flat is nearer, so they drive straight to it, park and run up the staircase because that second wind they’ve been waiting for is with them. Bodie opens the locks, Doyle re-sets them, jackets go onto hooks, Doyle’s tee shirt and Bodie’s polo end up on the sofa, trousers on the floor, pants thrown in the vague direction of the chest of drawers.

At last. What’s in front of them is what they knew they’d see, but it is never less than breath-taking. 

Bodie’s eyes fall, his lashes sweep down, then up to uncover a gaze that is not cool at all, his whole skin beating with a quick pulse, Ray’s hands branding him. He takes Ray’s hair between his fingers. Like a furious mane, like the corona of the sun. Ray’s eyes are wide, limpid, admiring—and then in a moment they glint with something sharper, wilder. 

“Today,” he says, and inhales, shakes his head once for the hopelessness of ever putting images into words, and just kisses Bodie. Chocolate crumbs in his mouth, skin as smooth as Swiss-roll cream (except for the marks of times Ray could have been better, kept Bodie safer, and that makes him kiss harder, deeper, because the only apology is passion), palms down his long back to the arse Ray had seen in the air, and he kneads both handfuls and almost sobs. 

The next thing Bodie knows, Ray’s hands grip his shoulders and push down the slightest bit, so he kneels gladly and takes the head between his lips, dizzy with the power of making Ray moan and stutter. Licking up the shaft, open mouth sliding down, his hands clasping Ray’s thighs, where his hair is rougher and his muscles so hard, driving so hard. Ray’s almost dancing. Bodie hums, a buzz that seems to pull Ray’s orgasm up his legs, through his balls to Bodie’s throat.

Ray is not sure his legs will hold him up, and anyway would never want to leave Bodie hanging, so pulls him up and hugs him round the waist. His cock is hard against Ray’s stomach and their foreheads touch. Bodie’s lips are red, wet, and his face is flushed. Ray knows he has never in his life seen anything more beautiful. He can’t help but smile, so wide it almost hurts, the way his heart is aching with having Bodie so near, so solid in his arms. But they have to let go to get Bodie on the bed.

At last they manage to do it, to separate to move together again, and Bodie’s head falls back as Ray licks and kisses down the column of his neck, nips at his collarbone, rubs the rough of his tongue on Bodie’s nipples, each touch an individual fire. Ray keeps lifting his head, which makes Bodie murmur in protest. But Ray can’t miss that sight, the raised chin and closed eyes. He’s been wanting it for hours, all day, since they first had sex, maybe all his life. He moves to get between Bodie’s legs, hurried, clumsy, and Bodie is almost too near the edge of the bed to keep from sliding off. Ray catches him, steadies him, but it makes him laugh and Bodie’s not amused. His cock is beyond tight and his balls feel like fists. When Ray sees the crooked eyebrows start to frown, he puts his face against Bodie’s hip and they both vibrate with his laughter. It’s almost enough but not quite, and Bodie squirms. Ray brushes his stubble lightly against Bodie’s burning flesh, then turns to get his hair in the way. He knows Bodie has a thing about his curls, so he even wraps a hank of them around and rubs it there. Bodie’s hips thrust up and he’s coming. Ray catches the tip in his mouth before Bodie’s done, pets his shaking thighs and quivering stomach, gentling him down, bringing them to earth. To rest. 

He crawls up the bed, shifts Bodie over, nearer the middle, and puts his head on Bodie’s shoulder. They breathe together until they fall asleep.

They’ll have another whole day tomorrow to do it all again.


End file.
